


Impersonation

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Series: John Moriarty [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, John is Moriarty, Moriarty!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Your first mistake,” John says smoothly,  “was calling yourself Moriarty. It got my attention.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In which Jim is not, in fact, Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impersonation

**Author's Note:**

> So, I came across a fic, a while ago, which was inspired by the following excellent prompt:
> 
> _John Moriarty would really like to know who the hell this weird Jim bloke is and why he's impersonating him. Like John would ever try to kill Sherlock, the only truly interesting person he's ever met. Bonus points if John's minions take down Jim's minions spectacularly at the pool. Extra bonus points if Sherlock and Mycroft had no clue that John's last name wasn't really Watson._
> 
> I decided that I really needed to do my own take on this prompt, so here it is.

**Impersonation**

The thing is, Sherlock Holmes is unique. That’s what starts the whole charade. Because John might be a criminal mastermind with an idiosyncratic sense of morality, but he’s always had an appreciation for interesting people, and Sherlock? Well. Sherlock, once John gets the chance to see him in person, might turn out to be the most interesting man John has ever met. He’s solved every case he’s put his mind to, and yes, he’s interfered with a few projects John had assigned moderate importance to… but John is intrigued.

It isn’t hard to make the arrangements. Fake military papers, a handful people willing to attest that they worked with a man who was never there… and after all, if John was always being transferred from unit to unit as a medic, is it really that surprising if most people don’t remember him? Who remembers a single medic who came and went in the middle of a war?

The name is the easiest thing of all: it’s the name he was born with. John hates it, shed that name in favour of his mother’s maiden name a long time ago, but it’s still a useful tool: after all, every legitimate document John owns has that name on it, which makes the fake life he constructs that much more believable. So John H. Watson it is – and it’s ironic, that this one real thing about him is the lie. Because while John Watson might still be his name as far as the law is concerned, John left John H. Watson behind long ago. Threw him away, along with the legacy of his drunken father, and created someone new: someone dark, and dangerous, and so very, very clever.

John smiles to himself, and sets the wheels in motion.

John ‘just happens’ to meet an old acquaintance in the park, one who is familiar with Sherlock Holmes. Stamford is a good man, as society measures them: but he has a bit of a gambling problem, and the debts are piling up. A few smiling promises and he agrees to introduce his old friend, John Watson, to the detective himself.

From there, everything goes swimmingly. Sherlock, from what John can see, is genuinely as extraordinary as he had hoped: swift, magnetic, as clever as John himself. John thinks the man is brilliant, and tells him so: Sherlock tries to hide it, but the pleased, flattered expression is there for John to see easily, even if no one else notices.

The first fly in the ointment comes when John’s name pops up in connection with the murderous cabbie.

“What’s Moriarty?” John asks, covering his sudden frown with a look of confusion.

“No idea,” Sherlock replies cheerfully.

Either Sherlock has got it wrong – unlikely – or someone, somewhere, has decided to play games. John’s mind races even as he laughs with Sherlock over their little adventure. If someone is playing around with Sherlock, using John’s identity…

Well, heads will roll. Obviously.

But first, John wants to know what’s going on.

* * *

It all spools out over the next three months. It doesn’t take John’s people long to find out who’s responsible for impersonating him: one of his own men has apparently lost his mind, and has been masquerading as John himself. James O’Sullivan, somewhere in the middle of the organisation’s hierarchy; just high enough to have access to certain of John’s resources, without being high enough to have ever met John himself.

John can’t imagine how O’Sullivan thinks he’s going to get away with all of this without John noticing, but John has better things to do than dissect the minds of egomaniac madmen. He allows O’Sullivan’s scheme to go ahead, while making sure that the man doesn’t find out that John knows what he’s up to.

John is marginally impressed by the scheme as it unfolds. It’s intricate, he’ll give O’Sullivan that much, and certainly fiendish; but it’s all in the comic-book supervillain style that John himself grew out of decades ago. Honestly, if one little thing goes wrong O’Sullivan’s entire plot is going to go kaput, like a clock with a cog out of place.

Sherlock seems excited enough by the whole thing, however, so John doesn’t put a stop to it. Instead, he tags along, picking up on the things that Sherlock doesn’t, and unlike Sherlock, he works out who, by O’Sullivan’s twisted logic, the fifth pip simply has to be.

“Sorry about this, boss,” Moran apologises, as he fits John for a semtex vest. The explosives aren’t real this time, of course; John might take risks upon occasion, but he’s not _that_ stupid.

“It’s fine,” John replies. “Tell me that the snipers are ready to take O'Sullivan out the moment I give the signal.”

“All like we arranged,” Moran agrees, and John smiles briefly before assuming the mien of poor, kidnapped Dr Watson, trapped in an explosive vest with no idea what to do next.

John is vindictively pleased when Sherlock is shocked and horrified to see him, especially when Sherlock is shown the fake semtex. Sherlock’s been delighting in O’Sullivan’s crazy, unnecessary plot, and it’s about time something hit home. Sherlock looks terrified as John parrots O’Sullivan’s words, but then there’s a voice from the back of the pool, and John smirks. Showtime.

“I gave you my number; I thought you might call,” O’Sullivan says, but Sherlock is frowning at John, clearly wondering about the smirk. John winks at him.

“Is that a British Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?” O’Sullivan asks, strolling forward with his hands in his pockets. He pays no attention to John.

“Both,” said Sherlock, aiming the gun at him.

“Jim Moriarty,” says O’Sullivan, smiling. “Hi!”

“Really?” John interrupts, silky-smooth. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Who asked you, Johnny-boy?” O’Sullivan sneers, barely glancing at John. John smiles, snakelike, and snaps his fingers.

Little red lights from the sniper’s laser sights settle on O’Sullivan’s chest. Sherlock’s eyes dart towards them, and O’Sullivan frowns, and looks down at himself. His look of befuddlement is a joy to see.

“What…?”

“Your first mistake,” John says smoothly, shrugging out of the fake semtex vest, “was calling yourself Moriarty. It got my attention.” He smiles at O’Sullivan. “John Moriarty. Hello.”

O’Sullivan blinks, stares, blinks again, and his expression slowly morphs into one of stricken, frozen terror. It’s lovely.

“No,” O’Sullivan shakes his head.

“Oh yes.” John nods his head, grinning. “You impersonated your boss, trespassed all over his territory, and then _kidnapped_ him. Really, Jim – I can call you Jim, can’t I? – I’m quite unhappy with you. All this time I’ve spent lurking in the shadows, and here you are, bringing me to the attention of law enforcement in the most obvious, conspicuous way possible. I’m afraid you’re a liability to my organisation.” 

“No,” O’Sullivan babbles, “You can’t – wait–”

But John tilts his head up to where he knows Moran is waiting, and gives a slight nod. A bullet smashes through O’Sullivan’s head and he crumples to the floor, eyes staring glassily.

John turns to where Sherlock is standing and staring. He’s not really surprised to see that Sherlock’s now aiming the gun at him.

“I wouldn’t,” John advises. “My snipers get testy when I’m shot.”

“You’re Moriarty,” says Sherlock.

“The real one, not this tosser,” John nods. “Yes.”

“Why?” Sherlock demands. “Why John Watson? What was the point?”

John gazes steadily at him.

“To get to know you, of course. I admit, I probably should have dealt with O’Sullivan earlier, but I was curious to see what his endgame was, and anyway. You seemed to be having fun.”

“People _died_ ,” Sherlock pointed out. John smiles wryly at him.

“I thought you didn’t care?”

“I thought you did,” says Sherlock, and tightens his grip on the gun.

John watches him, and sees what Sherlock is trying so hard to hide. Behind the mask he's put up, Sherlock’s hands shake slightly and his eyes flicker with emotion. Sherlock is heart-broken.

“What now?” Sherlock asks. “Are you going to have me killed, too?” His tone is short and contemptuous.

John smiles at him, and sees how the familiar expression rattles Sherlock.

“Why would I want to kill you?” he asks. “You’re the most interesting man I’ve ever met.”

Sherlock recoils.

“Stop it!” he hisses. “Stop _faking!_ ”

“I’m not,” John tells him, and takes a step closer. Sherlock doesn’t shoot him. “I mean it. I’ve always meant it. Why else would I be sharing a flat with you when I could be living it up in a mansion instead?”

He takes another step closer, then another. He reaches out, and gently takes the gun from Sherlock. Sherlock just stares at him, looking lost. John turns.

“Oi, you lot!” he yells towards the roof, where Moran and the snipers are. “You can clear off now, thanks!”

A familiar “Right, boss!” drifts back to him, and there’s quiet.

He turns back to Sherlock.

“I don’t kill people needlessly,” John explains quietly, “and I don’t play stupid games with peoples lives. I’m loyal to my people as long as they’re loyal to me, and I try not to see innocent people hurt. I’m not a nice person, I’ll admit that, but I do have morals, and the man you thought was Moriarty is nothing like me.”

“How can I possibly trust you?” Sherlock demands. And John smiles, because that, right there, is an admission that Sherlock _wants_ to.

“Not all of John Watson was a lie,” John says. “In fact, even the name is real. I was hardly going to use my real name as a criminal mastermind, was I? Besides, my father was a drunken bastard, and I was glad to get away from his name. Moriarty was my mother’s maiden name. I still trained as a doctor – I needed something legitimate to do – and I’m still the bloke who’s spent the last three months following you on cases everywhere.”

“Except that you’re quite capable of solving them yourself,” Sherlock deduces, studying him.

“Well, I _could_ ,” John admits, and wrinkles his nose. “Except that would draw far too much attention to me in all the wrong ways, and besides. The fun’s in watching you do it.”

Sherlock hesitates, and then says, “I thought he was going to kill you.”

John snorts at the idea.

“Well I know better now, obviously,” says Sherlock impatiently. “What now? Are you simply going to return to your pretence of John Watson?”

“Why not?” John shrugs. “No one else is here. Who needs to know the truth?”

“I imagine there are many people who would like to,” Sherlock says dryly. John tilts his head, regard Sherlock with warm blue eyes.

“Oh, yes,” he agrees. “The question is, are you going to tell them?”

“They can figure it out for themselves,” said Sherlock, and John grins at him. “Stop _grinning_ at me, this doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“True enough,” John says easily, and holds out his hand. Frowning suspiciously, Sherlock takes it.

“John Moriarty,” says John, still smiling as he shakes Sherlock’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

And Sherlock is staring at him again, like John is crazy, but that’s fine. They’ll work something out. John _knows_ Sherlock, and he knows that the man isn’t about to give him up this easily, especially not now that John has become an enigma that’s fascinating to Sherlock’s puzzle-solving brain.

“Sherlock Holmes,” says Sherlock slowly.

John smiles.

 

 

 


End file.
